The Sound Of Us
by Pyrasaur
Summary: When Francoeur first pulled that melody out of the air, Emile knew who it was meant for.


"I know it's a little late to be going out," Emile told her. "But this is … Well, it's something I wanted to be special."

Maud gave him her smile, brighter than the moonlight tonight. "I don't mind, Emile. Is what you've been sneaking off to work on? I'm awfully curious."

"Uh." He hadn't thought it would look like _sneaking off_. He and his friends had just been doing secret things in the dead of night, that was all. "Well, the thing is, Maud … I, uh. Can't tell you about it until you see it. A-And hear it. The entire experience is the point, actually."

She just squeezed his arm, and let him lead the way down the street.

They went to heavy-shadowed back entrance of the L'Oiseau Rare. Lucille welcomed them in with a wide, sly smile.

"Everything is—?" Emile asked her.

"It's all ready. Go! Enjoy yourselves!"

Oh, Emile really hoped they would.

The performance hall was downright cavernous with all its tables pulled back, and all its lamps doused so the walls disappeared into shadow. One spotlight called them into the center of the room. Behind the piano, Emile caught sight of a hulking friend with glowing eyes — but Maud didn't. She looked up into the shining darkness as they entered the spotlight's circle; her smile was angelic in the silver light. "Oh, we have this entire place to ourselves?"

"Yes. Just the two of us! And, uh … Okay! We're ready!"

Chittering, Francoeur vanished, leaning away to hit the switch. The latest invention creaked to life overhead — an elaborate system of pulleys and mirrors that Raoul absolutely _promised_ was safe. And as the gadget whirred, points of light swirled all around. And as Francoeur began to play, piano music filled the quiet space, a tune that made Emile's heart jump in recognition.

Maud gasped with delight. The lights reflecting off her glasses couldn't hide the light in her eyes as she came to him. "What is all this, Emile?" she laughed.

He took her hands. "It's a dance for our special day, Maud. Happy anniversary."

They held each other, fitting perfectly together. And they danced to their very own song.

* * *

Before this possibly-slightly-shady plan was hatched, Emile had never considered himself much of a musician. He couldn't play anything fancier than a pair of spoons and, frankly, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. But he had been talking to Francoeur one evening — quiet as he was, Francoeur was an excellent listener — and Emile's tongue came unglued as he talked about how sweet Maud was. Her home-cooked meals, and the razor-keen concentration on her face while she arranged her hair each morning, and the way her hands were always a bit cold until he held them. All perfect.

And as he remembered himself and stopped his rambling, he could have sworn that Francoeur was … delighted. Not simply listening, but beaming, like _he_ was the one full to bursting with love. He retrieved his guitar from a side table and with deft fingers, played a few notes of a melody. One that sounded familiar in a way Emile couldn't place.

"Did … did you just make that up? It almost reminds me of her …" No, not just of Maud. The song sounded like the two of them together.

Chirping a happy reply, Francoeur poised his fingers over the strings again. But didn't play. He just paused, staring expectant, and then beckoned with one alien hand.

"Wh-What? You want … Oh, should I tell you more?"

_But of course_, Francouer said with a nod.

The melody hung in his thoughts. What did the rest of that song sound like? Just as wonderful as the two of them together? Emile looked at his shoes for a bit, gathering up his nerve.

"I should probably start from the beginning. The day we met was, well, it was a pretty normal day at the theatre …"

His and Maud's song came together over a few more evenings. It took that long to really get it right, all the notes just somehow clicking with each other. Francoeur switched from guitar to the piano and under his four hands, a whole new harmony popped up underneath the main melody. Listening to the whole thing was weird — like being on their first date, and talking to her through the theatre ticket booth, and tucking her hair behind her ear in candlelight. But all at once and so powerfully that it ached.

"It's perfect," was all Emile could say. "It's— Just perfect."

Turning on the piano bench, Francoeur sat tall and smiled. He offered the sheet music with a chirrup Emile wished he could understand. And he couldn't read sheet music, either, but the gesture was nice. Turning the pages, glancing over the uneven patterns of dots, he couldn't help asking, "Are there words to this song?"

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't the sudden blankness on Francoeur's face. He looked into the air — where he seemed to have pulled the song from in the first place — with flicking eyes. And he looked back to Emile with a chirp and a tilt of his head. Confused? How could he be confused about it when he was the one who wrote the song?

"Alright …" Emile said. Maybe it was some creative genius thing he wouldn't understand. "It's beautiful the way it is. Beautiful enough for … for a special occasion."

And he had the first bright twinkling of an idea.

Emile kept those music sheets. Carried around in his breast pocket along with the other special item that was overwhelming him to think about.

* * *

It was still overwhelming, here in the moment as he held Maud and their song swelled all around them. He hadn't thought he'd be this nervous but this beautiful woman had a stronger grip on his heart than ever before.

"It's— It's been a wonderful year, Maud," he told her, the words nearly speaking themselves. "And I hope there are many more."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "Oh, I think there will be."

Now would have been the perfect time, but she was snuggled against his breast pocket. And moving her was the last thing Emile could bring himself to do. He watched the lights as they turned together, and the song spoke in a way he could almost understand.

Well, he thought. Maybe he'd work up the nerve to give her the ring tomorrow.


End file.
